


Body Spray and the Possibility of Murder

by bumbleflight



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumbleflight/pseuds/bumbleflight
Summary: Frank was born with an unnatural superpower, and he's pretty sure it was meant for greater things than the isles of convenience stores.Nevertheless, he can't look away. There stands a ten, a real fucking ten, hovering over a boy.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	Body Spray and the Possibility of Murder

**Author's Note:**

> please note: trigger warnings are down at the end because they have spoilers.

Frank was born with an unnatural superpower, and he's pretty sure it was meant for greater things than the isles of convenience stores.

Nevertheless, he can't look away. There stands a ten, a real fucking ten, hovering over a boy. Straining to get a better look, Frank frowns. The guy doesn't look like a murderer, in fact, he looks about Frank's age. Despite this, Frank knows they're nothing alike. Ten. A fucking ten.

Frank can see numbers above people's heads. Big, white letters - just floating there. He can't explain why it happens, but it does. He knows that the higher the number, the more lethal a person is. A toddler on a scooter would be a zero. A police officer would be a four. 

A person's number wasn't permanent, either. It would flicker up and down as murderous intent ebbed and flowed. But never before had Frank seen anyone over six. Quite honestly, he hadn't even known it was possible.

The boy glances up at him, and Frank flinches. He can't be much older than Frank, with these tired, darkly circled eyes, that hide behind messy black hair. His skin is ghostly white, covered in a dark jacket and jeans that don't fit. Put kindly, the dude looks like he got run over by a truck.

As they make eye contact, the floating ten falters. Nine-point eight, nine-point seven - and it was back up to a ten. Ah, well at least Frank wasn't going to be the victim. The guy grabs whatever he came here to get, and stalks off toward the cashier. Forgetting the food he was supposed to buy, Frank finds himself following. Everything's telling him to get away - to just run, but he can't. He has to find out more.

The cashier's at a one-point nine, which is surprising. They're usually higher by the end of the day. The guy throws a plastic box on the counter, paying in cash. He has to rustle through each of his pockets before he finds enough quarters. Trying his best not to be seen, Frank sneaks out of the store, waiting by the entrance. He's not a hero (fuck, he's the most cowardly person he knows), but he can't just ignore this, right? What if he's saving a life? Because someone was about to die.

Maybe he's going to kill someone really bad, Argues half of Frank's mind. Maybe he's avenging the death of his mother or something. But Frank knows that's not true - floating numbers don't go that high at the idea of revenge. This killer knew for a fact that someone was going to get murdered. He was sure of it.

Then why did it go down when he saw me?

The sliding doors suddenly whir open and Frank jumps, his skin prickling. He's fucking terrified. "Hey!" He croaks out because of course his voice has to choose right now to break.

The guy looks at him with an annoyed expression. "What?" He smells like body spray, and Frank's awfully positive there was enough grease in his hair to start a fire. 

"I-" Frank starts, and then reconsiders with a stronger tone. "What are you doing with that?" Pointing to the plastic bag the guy's carrying, Frank takes a step forward. A murder weapon, perhaps? Duct tape? Conveniently tiny bags? The guy takes a step back, scowling.

"None of your business." He snaps.

Frank's scared by this, but continues, boosted by an unexpected rush of confidence. No one was going to die, if he could help it (which he probably couldn't). "Tell me what it's for," Frank demands. "I want to know."

The guy snorts at this shoving the bag forward so Frank can see. It's a plastic case of disposable razors. "Shaving, okay?" He yanks it back, turning to leave. Shaving? Then why did he just buy the blades and not heads? Frank runs after him, desperate not to let him leave.

"Shave what? Your legs?" Frank almost teases, pretending like his knees weren't shaking. Fuck, his heart was about to beat out of his chest. "Because there's nothing on your face." It's dark outside - maybe ten of eleven PM. Frank should get home soon.

Just like that, the number drops to eight. Still incredibly high, but lower. "Why don't you leave me alone, huh?" The guy suggests, with a hint of exasperation. "Go back to eating worms or whatever you fags do."

Frank gasps at this, shocked. "What?" He asks, almost comically as he turns on the guy, who's now at a seven-point nine. "I'm not gay, I'm Frank. And if anyone here is gay, it's the guy who shaves his legs."

"I'm Gerard," The guy sighs, glancing over at him as they walk. Frank's not sure where they're going, but it's toward his house so whatever. "And these aren't for shaving my legs, dumbass."

"Okay," Frank frowns, regaining his suspicion. "Then what are they for?" They turn the block, and Frank wonders if he's gonna follow this dude all the way home.

Gerard snorts, flicking back a strand of hair. "What do you think they're for?" He says sourly, but Frank can't make the connection and honestly doesn't know. 

"Killing?" Frank doesn't mean to say it, he really doesn't. But the number's climbed back up to a ten and he's growing more concerned by the second. It doesn't help either when Gerard nods. "Yeah, killing."

So, Frank grabs the bag and runs.

It's a bold move, really, and he's quite surprised at himself as he snatches the plastic bag of razors and sprints away. Sort of an out of body experience. But at least Gerard wouldn't be killing anyone tonight.

Behind him, the number flickered down to a two.

**Author's Note:**

> tw: implied suicide, implied self-harm, mentions of murder


End file.
